


December among the dreaming spires

by nightbloomingcereus



Series: Dreaming Spires (the Oxford-verse) [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Professors, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together, Oxford, holiday party, more snarky academic observations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21931045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomingcereus/pseuds/nightbloomingcereus
Summary: a.k.a. The "Part of the Whole Design" holiday special.Featuring a holiday party, the Oxford versions of various familiar faces, miraculous math chalk, snow, cohabitation, a kitchen full of houseplants, tartan Christmas baubles, stargazing, and a whole lot of holiday fluff.Basically three parts tooth-rotting fluff, one part snarky commentary on academia, and maybe a dash or two of plot.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Dreaming Spires (the Oxford-verse) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480379
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79





	December among the dreaming spires

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the main story but before the epilogue of "Part of the Whole Design." You could probably read this as a standalone if you like, honestly: it's mostly just fluff. :)

Departmental holiday parties are a very special kind of Hell. 

The hot, crowded, noisy room is swarming with every graduate student within a kilometer radius, their free food radars all lit up like beacons. Worse than the hungry grad students are certain of Crowley's colleagues whom he cannot stand and whom he has otherwise managed to avoid for most of the preceding year. (It's amazing how many obligations a scientist can get out of with the _very important, very time-sensitive research_ excuse. Said _very important research_ might have actually consisted of idly contemplating the auditory capabilities of waterfowl or committing to memory the way Aziraphale's curls shone golden in shafts of light in all the libraries and quadrangles and cafes of Oxford, but this does not change the fact that Crowley has far better things to do than socialize with the likes of Dr. White and Dr. Sable.) The department chair inevitably gives a dull, long-winded speech. The buffet table is loaded with limp crudités and grainy hummus and a sad, British attempt at guacamole in the middle of the winter. And the wine is always, without fail, absolutely terrible. 

It’s the first week of December, far too early in Crowley’s opinion for all this holiday nonsense, but needs must, because so many of the students and post-docs will be leaving town shortly for the winter break. Most of the faculty are crabby and sleep-deprived, as end-of-term grades are due the following week, and that's on top of the time-honored December tradition of trying to get in last-minute paper submissions and revisions before all of the editors and reviewers vanish for unreasonably long holiday breaks during which the already glacially slow scientific publication process grinds to a complete stop.

Just to add insult to injury tonight, Aziraphale is late, leaving him to face the small talk and the speeches and the so-called guacamole alone. It's only been twenty minutes and Crowley is already terribly cranky, immensely bored, and craving something stronger than cheap, bitter wine. (Aziraphale has promised to bring the bottle of emergency Scotch that he keeps in his office, which would at least take the edge off just a little bit, not to mention remove the taste of the terrible wine from his mouth). 

He's just exchanged greetings with one of the first-year PhD students, named Eve, whom he had taught in one of his graduate seminars this term (she'd asked a lot of questions with genuine interest in class, which bodes well for her future as a scientist, in Crowley's opinion), when he overhears someone saying nearby, "I have PhDs in Physics and History of Science." Not a common combination, particularly in a hard science like physics, so Crowley looks up in interest. The speaker is a poised young woman, wearing round, heavy-framed black glasses and a long, full tartan skirt.

"I wasn't aware that History and Physics was a discipline," says the person she's talking to, in that sneering way that certain scientists affect when talking about the humanities, or, heaven forbid, _interdisciplinary studies_. This is Dr. Raven Sable, who is probably Crowley's least favorite person in the department, an opinion that he shares with many of their colleagues. 

"I didn't say it was," says the woman sharply. "I said I have a PhD in History of Science from Harvard and a second PhD in Physics from Oxford."

"Oh," says Dr. Sable, his mouth hanging open like he's seen a particularly distasteful unicorn. "Well, I suppose it's never too late to unlearn bad habits. Take our overreliance on food, for one thing…"

He's so absorbed in his own monologue that he doesn't notice that the woman has walked away. She's headed directly for Crowley, in fact, and is already sticking out her hand confidently for him to shake. 

"Anathema Device. I've been wanting to meet you to discuss possibly doing a post-doc in your lab. Your recent paper on Alpha Centauri was fantastic."

"I hear you've double PhDs in History of Science and Physics. That's not a combination I've seen very often."

"Yes," she says, warily, "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Of course not. It's very impressive. I think all scientists should be required to take courses in the humanities, actually. Brings a fresh perspective to things. A little creativity."

"I was hoping you'd see it that way."

"Besides, I'd be willing to bet that you could write a better paper in your sleep than any of those wankers in Sable's lab." 

Anathema smiles at that, a genuine smile, and they fall into conversation naturally. It's clear to Crowley that Anathema is driven, detail-oriented, creative, and fiercely intelligent, and he extends an invitation for her to come give a presentation and meet with himself and the members of his lab the following week. When she pulls out her phone to enter the date and time of the interview into her calendar, Crowley notices that it's the latest model of iPhone, in the highly coveted and virtually unobtainable limited-edition mirror-gold finish. He can't resist commenting on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Eve, who is still hovering around the buffet table nearby, looking up from her own phone with interest.

"Oh, that," says Anathema, with just a hint of embarrassment, "My family has some inside connections to Apple. If you want one of these, I happen to know that the Apple Store on Regent Street in London is getting a small shipment of them tomorrow."

Ten years ago, Crowley would have been out the door and on the next bus to London at that kind of inside news, the opportunity to have the latest and most coveted piece of tech before everyone else. Nowadays, though, such things seem far less important. 

"Tempting as that sounds," he tells Anathema, "I'm too old to wait in queues overnight with a bunch of teenagers these days."

He might be too old for it, but not everyone here is, it seems. Eve, who'd been shamelessly eavesdropping, suddenly heads quickly toward the exit.

About five minutes later, he finally, _finally,_ sees Aziraphale. He's standing in the doorway, a vision of white-gold hair, bow tie, and terrible tartan trousers. (At least, miracle of miracles, he hasn't tried to don _festive_ tartan for this party.) They spot each other at the same time from across the room, Aziraphale's face lighting up with a fond smile, Crowley trying to stay cool but, as usual, unable to fight his mouth's desire to quirk up every time he sees Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale makes his way across the room to Crowley's side, dropping a soft kiss on his cheek when he gets there. His face and lips are still a little cold from the outdoors, and he smells like his familiar cologne, underlaid with a hint of lavender soap and the distinctive old-book smell of the Bodleian. The room feels suddenly lighter, the clamor and the crowds less overwhelming, the entire holiday party enterprise less tiresome.

"I'm sorry I'm late, darling. I got caught up in a manuscript, and I lost all track of time—"

"I thought you were bringing whiskey, angel."

"I gave it away," mumbles Aziraphale sheepishly.

"You what?" Crowley looks at him, eyes wide in surprise, above the tops of his sunglasses.

"I gave it away! To a young lady who was just leaving. I bumped into her in the foyer. Her name is Eve. She was going to go to London and wait in a queue all night, outside. She seemed terribly excited about it for some reason. I admit I don't understand exactly quite _why._ Something about an apple? She wanted to get it for her girlfriend for Christmas? But anyway, it's going to be cold out there, and dark, and it might _snow_ , and she's expecting to wait there all night, and so I thought she could really use something to warm her up."

"You really are an angel, you know that?"

"Oh, I do hope I've done the right thing. Probably shouldn't be going around giving alcohol to your students, eh?"

"I don't think angels can do the wrong thing, love," says Crowley, bemused and utterly in love. He puts an arm around Aziraphale and pulls him close. "Come on, we might not have whiskey, but could I tempt you to a glass of this most decidedly mediocre Chardonnay?"

Aziraphale plucks Crowley's glass out of his hand, takes a small sip, and makes a pained face. "Oh, Lord, that's vile. I think mediocre is far too generous a term. This is an insult to wine everywhere. I think I shall remain untempted tonight, if it's all the same to you."

"Can't say I blame you. It really is dreadful," says Crowley. He notices Anathema, still standing nearby, smiling at their exchange. "Oh, let me introduce you to Anathema Device. She might be joining my lab, depending on how things go next week. Anathema, this is my … partner, Aziraphale Fell." This, he realizes, is the first time he's introduced Aziraphale to someone since they've started dating. "Boyfriend" does not seem to encompass even a fraction of how he feels about Aziraphale; "partner" doesn't seem quite right either, but it's closer and will have to do for now, as he suspects that "love of my life" is sadly not really an appropriate term to use when making polite, casual conversation in public with one's colleagues. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, my dear," says Aziraphale warmly. 

They chat for a bit about this and that, although Anathema's phone keeps dinging insistently. "I'm sorry," she says, tapping furiously at the screen of her phone, "I'm a little distracted. I'm in a bidding war on eBay for chalk."

"Chalk?" asks Aziraphale, completely puzzled. Knowing him, he probably thinks it's some kind of newfangled (or possibly American) slang for something nefarious. Drugs, maybe. Crowley, however, who is well-versed in modern slang due to his addiction to Reddit and Twitter, is for once just as confused.

"Yes, chalk. It's supposed to be Newt's Christmas-slash-solstice present," says Anathema vaguely, explaining exactly nothing and in fact adding yet another inexplicable variable to the equation. She holds up a hand, says apologetically even as she's frantically tapping at the screen, "I'm sorry. Give me one minute until this auction is over."

The minute elapses, and Anathema pumps her fist in a very American way and exclaims with satisfaction, "Victory!" She looks up at Crowley and Aziraphale, and says, "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

"My dear," asks Aziraphale quizzically, "are you really purchasing _chalk_ for an _amphibian_?"

"Oh!" she says, laughing, "Newt is my boyfriend. I assure you he is very much human."

The chalk, as it turns out, really is actual chalk for writing on chalkboards, although Anathema has just paid what is frankly an obscene amount of money for it, so it might as well have been drugs. Newt is a mathematics graduate student, who insists upon doing all his calculations and proofs longhand rather than on a computer. It's a little unclear, but he seems to have some kind of traumatic history with computers, having once been a failed computer science grad student. (He doesn't really use a calculator either, although this is more because he is a serious mathematician who deals almost exclusively with variables and symbols, so has only a tenuous relationship with actual numbers.) The chalk is a Japanese brand which is no longer produced and is rumored to have miraculous, Fermat's-last-theorem-proving properties, although it's most likely just a very nice writing experience. Aziraphale, upon hearing this last bit, nods in understanding: it's why he still writes with fountain pens that cost the equivalent of thousands of disposable ballpoint pens, after all. (He doesn't use chalk though; there would be hell to pay if so much as a smudge of chalkdust were to get on his precious books. Crowley doesn't use chalk either: it makes him sneeze, and there would be hell to pay if so much as a smudge of chalkdust were to get on his precious black blazers.) Newt also apparently cannot buy his own bloody chalk on eBay, because he always seems to get inexplicably booted off the site right when the auction is about to end, so he gets sniped at the last minute every time by more tech-savvy chalk enthusiasts. This level of technological incompetence is truly astounding to Crowley, because even Aziraphale has been using eBay successfully for years (the moment he'd discovered how many lovely old books one could buy on it, he'd taken to it like a duck to water).

After Anathema leaves, they make a pass by the buffet table, and Aziraphale samples the offerings, even though Crowley has warned him that the food is bordering on inedible, because, as he says, "hope springs eternal." (Hope, in this case, he is forced to admit after a disappointing taste, has been sadly misplaced or possibly just overcooked to death.) They mingle a bit more, chatting with some of Crowley's colleagues and exchanging friendly greetings with the administrators and staff; he finds that the small talk and idle pleasantries are far less grating and unpalatable with Aziraphale at his side. Navigating these sorts of gatherings is an intricate dance, one that Crowley and Aziraphale perform best together, it seems. Crowley is excellent at avoiding people he doesn't want to talk to, while Aziraphale excels at making friendly conversation with nearly everyone. His affability and sweet smile seem to put everyone at ease, Crowley not least among them. 

In reality, it's mostly just a single group of people that Crowley is trying to avoid. The group in question consists of three professors in his department and one visiting fellow in Politics; there are also four rather slovenly-looking masters students who are hovering around the edges of the group and being largely ignored. 

Dr. Azrael is the department chair, and the kind of imperious academic elder statesman that everyone is afraid of. (This means that, whereas it would normally be considered a faux pas for a junior professor like Crowley not to say hello to his department chair at the holiday party, it's pretty much expected in this particular department because Dr. Azrael is not the sort of person anyone makes small talk with.) He has more grant money than God and a truly impressive publication record, so he and his lab can study whatever the hell crazy thing he feels like studying, which is at the moment dark matter and black holes. Azrael has also published various theories regarding the eventual end of the universe, including one that rather dramatically refers to something he calls "the Armageddon Singularity"; this penchant for drama notwithstanding, his science is always unquestionably solid and the leaps his mind makes are nothing short of genius. Even though the majority of his colleagues still quake like graduate students at their qualifying exams whenever they have to interact with him, nobody can deny that the man is a brilliant scientist. 

Azrael makes a habit of showing up to seminars and terrorizing the presenters by asking questions that are simultaneously incredibly insightful and impossible to answer. He's shown up at three dissertation defenses in the last month and made all three of the defending students cry. One of them wasn't even in the Physics department; he was a _literature_ student who was studying the impact that the Black Death had on literature of the fourteenth century. Aziraphale, who had been in the room at the time, had told Crowley later that Azrael had actually known what he was talking about, certainly more so than Dr. Tyler, who was actually _on_ the student's dissertation committee. Luckily, Dr. Pratchett of the English department, who is the _other_ kind of academic elder statesman, beloved by everyone, who always welcomes students with a kind word and a cup of tea and provides excellent and constructive advice on everything from career choices to where to get the best curry in town, had stepped in and made Azrael stand down. It's the only time anyone at Oxford can remember someone managing to best Dr. Azrael, and the story is well on its way to attaining mythological status. If Dr. Azrael showing up at your defense was the kiss of Death, then Dr. Pratchett's presence was the breath of life.

Azrael's closest companions in the department are the odious Dr. Sable and the unsavory Dr. White. They're not exactly friends of Dr. Azrael's, because Azrael is not the kind of man who has something so human as friends; they're more like cronies, or allies. Sable is a biophysicist, and his current research is on the synthesization of food substitutes. Which, on the surface of things, is an interesting scientific project, and could help solve critical problems like world hunger and malnutrition. But Dr. Sable is also an enthusiastic proponent of the theory that caloric restriction can slow aging, so his efforts tend toward the production of zero-calorie food substitutes rather than anything nutritionally sound. He's lately been advocating a life free of what he calls the "evils of food" and has managed to make disparaging remarks about the catered lunch and anyone who dares to eat it at every one of their weekly departmental faculty meetings. There's a tiny part of Crowley that wants to challenge Sable to maintain his belief that food is the root of all evil by showing him the sight of Aziraphale eating like it's a transcendent, holy experience; there's a much larger part of him that recoils at the thought of allowing someone so reprehensible as Sable to so much as lay eyes upon his angel. Even setting aside Sable's questionable morals, Crowley (and many of his colleagues, if gossip is anything to go by) personally believes that his scientific integrity is also highly suspect; his work is, at best, unpardonably sloppy, at worst, criminally unethical. Sadly, however, there is always a market for zero-calorie products in the modern world, so Sable has loads of industry grants; this plus Azrael's support have made him untouchable in the department, much to the chagrin of his many detractors. 

It's a tossup whether Dr. Sable or his compatriot Dr. White is more disliked within the Oxford physics community. Dr. White is a petroleum engineer and thus has a joint appointment with the Department of Engineering Science, but, even discounting the ingrained disdain that many pure physicists have for engineers, there's no denying the fact that they are just kind of a _slimy,_ unpleasant person. They are so far in the pockets of the petroleum industry that they probably bleed black tar, and most of their research seems to reflect this bias: they have written articles about the beneficial effects of oil spills and climate change, among other, equally indefensible things. 

The fourth member of Azrael's clique tonight is a stunning, red-headed woman wearing a form-fitting red suit. (As a fellow redhead, Crowley has to grudgingly appreciate her fashion sense, if nothing else.) This is Carmine Zuigiber, the world-famous war correspondent, who is a guest fellow at the Reuters Institute at the Department of Politics this term; she is some kind of distant relation of Azrael's, which explains her presence here tonight. In the short time she has been at Oxford, she's already become the stuff of legend. Her first lecture, on the topic of the wars in Syria and Afghanistan, had somehow managed to turn a normally sedate lecture hall full of stuffy professors and half-asleep graduate students into something with an alarming resemblance to a bar fight, if having an unnecessary number of advanced degrees was a prerequisite for entering said bar. And most decidedly not a highbrow Oxford pub full of robed academics. Not even a London bar. A _Manchester_ bar. There had been several thrown personal electronic devices, a not insignificant number of actual punches thrown, and an accusation that a professor was sleeping with another professor's wife, among other things. Some enterprising grad student had filmed the whole thing and uploaded it on YouTube, which stirred even more controversy and conflict, as the Internet predictably exploded with trolls and righteously indignant people complaining about the state of the education system and the moral bankruptcy of the academic elite. This being Oxford, there were also a staggering number of deadly, well-aimed verbal barbs, some of which have already been made into memes. Through it all, Carmine Zuigiber had stood serenely at her lectern, a small smirk on her face. What any of it had to do with the conflict in the Middle East is still patently unclear, although the fracas had inevitably devolved at some point into everyone shouting about Brexit and taking sides. Crowley regrets slightly that he hadn't been there, as he does enjoy a good spectacle, although he draws the line at actual physical violence.

Lately, Aziraphale’s been reading aloud to him from Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ in bed before they go to sleep, and so his hyperactive imagination produces an image of Carmine Zuigiber tossing three golden apples into the crowd around the bar. At least half of the people present would undoubtedly go after them, crawl under the tables on their hands and knees to retrieve the rolling fruit, maybe throw a few punches to ensure that they would be the one to hand the shining prize to Zuigiber.

Thinking about the _Metamorphoses_ brings his thoughts back to Aziraphale: Aziraphale's proper, posh voice reading to him in bed, Aziraphale's manicured hands cupped around a steaming cup of tea at Crowley's kitchen island, Aziraphale's sleep-mussed white-gold curls on early mornings, Aziraphale ensconced in his favorite squashy velvet armchair with his tiny, round reading glasses on his nose and a hefty book in his lap, Aziraphale who has taken up residence in every soft and secret room of Crowley's heart. 

What he really wants right now is to be in his pajamas, snuggled up against Aziraphale’s soft, warm, solid body and listening to him read aloud in his clear tenor, one hand stroking Crowley's back and the other holding the book. He wants, he realizes, to be in _their_ bed in _their_ home, not his bed or Aziraphale’s bed, but _their_ bed. He reels with the sudden clarity of this thought. It is far too intimate, too personal, a revelation to be having in the middle of a sodding workplace holiday party of all places.

They've been officially together for less than three months. (Although it's been more than seventeen years that Crowley's heart and mind have been entangled with Aziraphale, even when he hadn't known even so much as his surname.) It's terribly fast to be moving in together after so short a time, he knows, even though they've spent nearly every night of those three months together. But sometimes it feels like his entire relationship with Aziraphale, now that they've overcome the hurdle of actually getting together, is about being very sure of everything with a snap of the fingers. He often feels as if he is happily diving headfirst into an endless ocean, Aziraphale's hand in his; he knows they'll emerge together, joyful and laughing. Still, he sometimes can't help but worry that he is moving too fast for Aziraphale, who has always been more cautious, less impulsive.

The room suddenly feels too hot, too crowded, too loud. Shrill voices, clanking glasses, raucous laughter. 

"Let's get out of here, angel," he says in a low voice.

Before he can act on that thought, however, he's interrupted by the sound of silverware clinking on a glass, the universal sign to stop talking and pay attention. Whether or not one actually does so, of course, depends entirely on who is doing the clinking. In this particular case, however, everyone immediately shuts up, an almost deathly quiet settling over the room, because it's Dr. Azrael standing there with the knife and glass in his hand. 

Azrael's voice is a deep, slow, stentorian bass, the kind that is calm and measured enough to be lulling but also somehow leaves one quaking in fear for reasons one doesn't quite understand. He never actually raises his voice or goes shrill with anger; he doesn't need to. Crowley resigns himself to having to listen politely through a speech that will almost certainly be long and tiresome and boring. However, once Azrael gets through the formalities, thanking everyone for being here and such, just when Crowley's mind is starting to wander, something Azrael says catches his attention in the worst possible way. 

"— the Morningstar Foundation has decided to expand its relationship with Oxford and specifically with our physics and biology departments. We are deeply grateful for their support. It is with the greatest pleasure that I congratulate our very own Dr. Raven Sable for being the inaugural recipient of the Morningstar Initiative Grant."

He pauses for a smattering of polite applause. There is less of it than someone unfamiliar with Dr. Sable might envision, but Crowley cannot really enjoy this small, petty victory because he's too busy trying to fight the irrational, heart-jumping panic that always occurs when he hears the name "Morningstar." 

Although Crowley tries to avoid talking to his family at all costs, out of both spite and self-preservation, his insatiable curiosity means that he still keeps close tabs on what Lucifer and Bee are up to. Lucifer, following in the footsteps of all the titans of tech and industry these days, has determined that he _will_ live forever, whatever the cost, and has thus decided to throw a huge amount of money and resources into accomplishing this. To this glorious end, he has established the Morningstar Foundation, which awards grants to biomedical researchers, and the Morningstar Institute, which is focused on anti-aging research, and apparently now the Morningstar Initiative; on the surface of things, all of this looks like a commendable and impressive philanthropic enterprise, but Crowley knows better. He supposes he should be grateful that (for now, at least) Lucifer hasn't tried to have any of the colleges or departments or schools at Oxford renamed after himself. The grant to Sable is news to Crowley, though. Azrael tends to keep these things close to his chest, and Crowley, as the most junior of the junior faculty in the department, is absolutely not consulted on policy decisions.

Crowley is, suddenly, dying to leave. Of course he can't, because leaving in the middle of one of Dr. Azrael's speeches is akin to suicide. It's basically a guarantee that at the next dreaded administrative meeting, Azrael will cut your funding or reallocate your lab space or, worst of all, make you teach Introductory Physics for Pre-meds. So he grits his teeth and stands there, squeezing Aziraphale's hand far too hard. Aziraphale squeezes back, and it's just enough to keep Crowley from full-on panicking. 

Azrael is still going on about what an honor this new partnership is, and how impressive Sable's research is, and Crowley thinks this speech can't get any worse. It turns out, however, that he's wrong. 

"And, finally, I'd like to welcome a special guest who is here with us tonight. Please join me in extending a very warm welcome to Dr. Dagon Ichthys, the scientific director of the Morningstar Institute." 

The woman coming up to the dais to shake Azrael's hand is someone whom Crowley has not seen or spoken to in over ten years, and is someone he'd be happy never to see again. Thankfully, Dagon keeps her remarks short and to-the-point, exactly as he remembers her being back when they knew each other. When she concedes the microphone back to Azrael, he enjoins everyone to "enjoy the party, eat, drink, and be merry!" in his funereal voice, and finally steps off the dais.

The assembled crowd dissipates back into the small, insular, esoteric cliques that are the natural state of any academic gathering. Crowley immediately starts dragging Aziraphale toward the exit, ranting all the while about what a hack and all-around terrible person Sable is. He's not quite fast enough, however, as they find themselves on a collision course with none other than Dagon herself. He can see the exit sign over her shoulder, glowing a cruel, bright, inaccessible red. 

"Shit," he mutters to himself, hoping that she hasn't overheard any of his diatribe about Sable. The last thing he needs is for his trash-talking of one of Lucifer's pet scientists to get back to the man himself. (Not that Crowley really thinks Lucifer's opinion of his unwanted nephew could really get much worse, but he would much rather not be on his radar at all.)

"Crowley!" says Dagon enthusiastically, "It's been such a long time!" She's grinning widely, looking just as she had the last time he'd seen her, over a decade ago, blonde hair, thin lips, smile crowded full of teeth. She holds out a hand, and Crowley has no choice but to shake it. Her hand is, just as he remembers, cold and clammy. 

"Dagon," he mutters, far less enthusiastically, "Good to see you."

"You too, Crowley. Professor at Oxford, huh? Congratulations. I know this was always your dream."

He nods, stiffly.

"I've always thought it was a shame we lost touch," says Dagon. She thrusts a business card at him. "We should get coffee sometime and catch up. London and Oxford aren't so far apart, you know, and I think we might share some … opinions."

There's an awkward silence. He takes the proffered card, because he knows he can't afford to be rude, not here in front of everyone, but he's not about to agree to have coffee with her either. 

Aziraphale, as usual, saves him. 

"Oh, Heavens! Look at the time!" he exclaims, making a show out of pulling out and examining his pocket watch. "We really have to get going, darling, if we don't want to be late."

Crowley looks over at him, nods dumbly. 

Meanwhile, Aziraphale is still prattling on. "Oh, how rude of me!" he says with a little laugh, extending his hand to Dagon to shake, "Aziraphale Fell. Professor of English Literature. Pleasure to meet you. Your work is most impressive, I must say." He smiles, his crinkly-eyed, kindly, sweet, absent-minded English Professor smile, and Dagon, like everyone else, seems utterly charmed. 

"I'm terribly sorry to say hello and then run off, dear," says Aziraphale, "but we really must get a wiggle on. _So_ lovely to meet you."

Well, thinks Crowley, that's one way to render someone speechless: just drop a ridiculous phrase like "get a wiggle on" into the conversation and you buy yourself a good twenty seconds of gobsmacked confusion. He can't deny that it seems to have worked though; just like that they're walking toward the door. Now that he's been rescued, Crowley recovers just enough to breezily say "Ciao" and deliver a jaunty wave in Dagon's general direction before sauntering away. The look on Dagon's face is perplexed, and possibly bemused, although he doesn't have time to analyze it before Aziraphale drags him away. It seems like they've escaped in the nick of time; just as they're exiting the room into the foyer, there is the distinct, sharp sound of breaking glass accompanied by raised, angry voices coming from somewhere near the vicinity of Carmine Zuigiber. Neither of them is inclined to stay a moment longer to find out what has just happened, so they rapidly reclaim their coats from the racks by the door and stumble out into the cold. 

"So what's this big event, then, angel? The one we can't be late for?"

"Cocoa," says Aziraphale decisively, buttoning up his coat. "And Scotch. I believe I still owe you a bottle of Scotch, don't I?"

"Oh, lord," breathes Crowley, feeling his pulse returning to normal. He gathers Aziraphale to him and presses his face into his hair. "I love you. Thank you for saving me. My very own guardian angel."

Outside, it’s begun to snow, and the moment the door shuts behind them, shutting away the clamor and the commotion and the too-bright lights of the party, they’re surrounded by the soothing cocoon-like stillness and silence that only comes with gently falling snow. Snow, especially this kind, with real, defined snowflakes drifting in soft, blowsy flurries, is a rare occurrence in Oxfordshire, particularly in early December. (The exception, which has inspired much speculation, some of it wild, and is the subject of a couple of small field studies by some of Crowley's colleagues who work on weather phenomena and climate change, is a small, quaint village about an hour away that bizarrely seems to have a picture-perfect microclimate: white Christmases, breezy, cloudless Easters, sunny, sparkling midsummers. The scientific explanation is that it has something to do with the fortuitous convergence of air currents from the ocean and the mountains. What remains a mystery is how the village has not yet been overrun with tourists and Londoners desperate for a glimpse of the sun.) But, given that this is Oxford and not Tadfield, the typical December weather is usually just bog-standard British grey and gloom and chilly-damp, and so this snowstorm feels like a gift. The persistent, musty, earthy leaf-rot smell of late autumn is totally absent tonight, frozen away into clean nothingness. Snowflakes settle gently in Aziraphale’s hair, marshmallow white against his silver-gold curls. He’s pretty as a picture, in Crowley’s perfectly objective opinion. Like a Christmas angel, ice glistening in his hair and a smile crinkling around his bright eyes, with the snow-glazed domes and spires of Oxford in the background. Aziraphale's delighted laugh is such a joyous sound echoing off the stone walls and cobblestones, that Crowley can’t help joining in. They hold hands and make their way slowly back to Aziraphale’s flat, kicking up snow flurries like children and exclaiming at the perfect, crystalline snowflakes that fall on their coat sleeves. They don't talk about the party, or Dagon, or work: there will be time enough for that tomorrow, after fresh snowfalls and warm cocoa and contented sleep.

Honestly, it's a little cold, especially since both of them are far too invested in their own ideas of sartorial style (however different those might be) to ever be caught dead in a puffy winter coat, or, Someone forbid, proper snow boots. But what a picture they make: Aziraphale in his vintage camel wool coat and tartan scarf and cognac-brown wingtips, and Crowley in his sleek black cashmere topcoat and cranberry-red scarf and shiny snakeskin boots. Snowflakes gather in their hair, because of course neither of them is practical enough to have remembered to bring a hat tonight, or, to be honest, even check the weather report.

In the end, it just comes out. After the snowy walk home, hand in hand, giggling like children. After the heated kisses against Aziraphale's front door, first the outside, and then the inside, when the cold started to become unpleasant. After a clumsy but rapid struggle between too many layers and fingers half-numb from the cold. After they fall into the plush metal-framed bed piled high with pillows and blankets. After they've recovered and drunk cocoa laced with whiskey on the couch, leaning against each other, cradling the hot mugs in their hands and gazing out at the snow falling softly into the lane and on the trees. After all that, they're tucked into bed and Crowley is laying half in Aziraphale's lap, listening to the soothing rise and fall of his voice reading a passage from Ovid aloud. Aziraphale sets the book down and smooths his hand against Crowley's hair, down his neck and back. He bends down to kiss the crown of his head, murmurs a soft "I love you" into his hair. And Crowley, loose-limbed and floating on happiness, eyes closed, his anxiety light-years away, blurts out, "Move in with me."

Aziraphale is silent for a moment, and Crowley starts to panic. It's only when he cranes his neck to look up at Aziraphale's face that he sees the enormous smile that's blooming there, bright as the sun.

"Yes, dearest, of course. But I think _you_ should move in with _me._ You hate your flat, and frankly so do I. All that concrete. It's so _cold._ And besides, this one's more convenient. It'll be a bit tight for two here, but it'll be cozy."

And of course Aziraphale is right, and of course Aziraphale's idea is brilliant, and he can't think of anything he wants more than to be _cozy_ with Aziraphale, every day and every night.

And _then_ Aziraphale continues, a bit sheepishly, "One of the garage spaces for this building, in that detached garage across the way, opened up a couple of weeks ago. And I… I may have paid the rent on it, so someone else wouldn't take it. I hope… I hope that's not too presumptuous of me, darling."

Instead of answering, Crowley twists around and reaches up and kisses Aziraphale, hard, because the only thing, the one thing, that would have given him pause about this plan would have been where in the world he'd park his Bentley, here in Jericho where the street parking is positively hazardous and extremely scarce. And of course, _of course,_ Aziraphale has thought of this too. 

"Anything you want, angel. Anything you want. Although I _am_ bringing my bed – this one squeaks, you know. And my television."

"Fine," sighs Aziraphale, acting put-upon. It's terribly cute. "I suppose I could live with that. I do rather like watching _Bake-off_ at yours, after all. And you'll hear no argument from me about the bed. I will fully admit yours is superior. Lord knows you're much more fond of sleep than I am." 

Frankly, he has no idea where he's going to put his sixty-inch TV in this flat, or all the potted plants, or the semi-pornographic (but artistic!) statue of an angel and a demon wrestling that he'd picked up years ago on a trip to Florence. Or his clothes, for that matter. Aziraphale is the type of person who never gets rid of his old clothes, _and_ he's an aficionado of good tailoring and craftsmanship and taking proper care of said clothing. All of which means that the shallow, Victorian-era closets in his flat are full-to-bursting with somewhat outdated but very well-made and well-preserved clothing. (Not that Crowley is really complaining about Aziraphale's penchant for hanging on to his clothes for so long. Several weeks into their relationship, Aziraphale had revealed that he still had the waistcoat and bow tie that he'd been wearing in Paris the day they'd met, seventeen years ago. He'd kept them, of course, in tip-top shape. The revelation had nearly made Crowley cry.) But they'll figure it out. It's just a packing problem, after all. 

An example problem: How many houseplants can you fit in a 1926 Bentley? Hint: Don't forget to consider vertical space, as any urban architect could tell you. Answer: _a lot._ Just so long as you don't mind not being able to see out your back windshield.

The next morning, over coffee and tea and toast with jam and butter, Crowley tells Aziraphale about Dagon. In the light of day, after a restorative night's sleep, the idea of Dagon no longer seems nearly so daunting as it did before. She is, in the end, just someone from his past, and his present and future is sitting right here on the other side of the breakfast table with his curls mussed and ruffled and adorable from sleep, wearing a hideous tartan robe and licking jam from his fingers.

"We were at Cambridge together for our PhDs. I was physics, she was biochemistry. Different departments, but both science. A lot of my classmates in the physics program used to say that biochemistry was a soft science, but honestly I think most of them were scared of her. She's one of the most dedicated scientists I've ever met. Incredibly thorough and organized and determined."

"Soft science, eh? At least you weren't fraternizing with humanities students back then. Just _imagine_ the mockery."

"I'd never have heard the end of it. Honestly, though, I didn't know what I was missing out on. And anyway, I _like_ soft."

"What would they say if they could see you now," says Aziraphale, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval, "Shacking up with an English professor."

"They'd be jealous, angel," replies Crowley softly, "They'd be jealous."

"Anyway," he says, getting back to the point, "Dagon did her doctorate on cellular regeneration in zebrafish models, and was known for being preternaturally organized. She always made these insanely complicated and multiply indexed spreadsheets and charts. She could make Microsoft Excel do things that the developers had never dreamed of. We used to call her the Lord of the Files."

"Clever," says Aziraphale dryly. 

They'd fallen out of touch after graduate school. It hadn't helped that Dagon had moved to London to do an incredibly productive postdoc that had turned into an assistant professorship within three unbelievably fast years, and somehow during that time had ended up becoming close friends with his cousin Bee. That friendship, in turn, had led to her being tapped to be the scientific director of the newly established Morningstar Institute, an incredibly prestigious position for someone so young. (Crowley, in contrast, hadn't even gotten his first independent position by the time Dagon was already in charge of an entire Institute.) 

"Here's the thing," says Crowley, "She's an amazing scientist; she's brilliant _and_ hardworking. That's a pretty rare combination. Most of us are clever but lazy, or diligent but unimaginative. She absolutely deserves all the funding and awards she's gotten. Not like Sable. And I know it's stupid, she can be friends with whomever she wants and work for whoever she wants, and she hasn't even done anything to me personally, but I still feel _betrayed._ "

"Well, for what it's worth," says Aziraphale thoughtfully, "she genuinely seemed happy to see you last night, and I think she was being sincere when she said she wanted to get back in touch with you."

"I don't know, angel. I wouldn't even know what to say after so long."

"I know, love. You don't have to do anything about her if you don't want to. I'm just saying I don't think she has any ill will toward you. You're more likeable than you think, you know."

"Well, _you_ certainly seem to like me, and you're the only person whose opinion I care about right now," says Crowley, coming around the table to kiss Aziraphale, and they don't speak of Dagon any further that morning. 

The snowstorm, which had ended sometime during the night, has left a blanket of still-pristine white fluff on the trees and rooftops and sidewalks, and the city is bright and beautiful and glittering, all blue sky and snowy ground, when Crowley leaves Aziraphale's place around noon. He heads back to his flat, eager to start packing it up.

Surprisingly, his landlord gives him no grief at all over breaking his lease with only a month's notice. Apparently there is a waiting list of people who would be happy to overpay to live in a building that was built in the last decade, however ugly and soulless, as opposed to one that's been around for three centuries or more. (People like the Crowley of just a year ago, people looking for places without ghosts. He hopes that Oxford will work its peculiar magic on some of them, too, that they’ll start spending their days in libraries and gardens and pubs, and that maybe, just maybe, they’ll find love, too, among the lonely ghosts and dusty books and winding cobblestone lanes.)

He calls moving companies that same day, to haul his furniture and other heavy things, but none of them will be able to come until after New Year's, given that most of their muscle consists of off-season student athletes, the majority of whom have skipped town for the holidays. But it's not like anyone says has to wait for his furniture to arrive before moving _himself_ in, which he does the very next day, bringing with him several suitcases full of clothing and other essentials and what appears to be a whole jungle's worth of houseplants. He doesn't trust the movers not to damage his plants anyway, so he really does end up carefully cramming them all into his Bentley; even so, it takes three trips and there are still a few larger ones left in the old flat. 

A good number of the plants end up in the kitchen. The natural light in there is excellent, and the perpetually dripping tap finally has a purpose. It's a good thing neither of them is much good at cooking, because at the moment there are more flowerpots than cooking pots in there. (Crowley has, however, of late had the idle thought that he'd maybe like to learn to cook for real; something about the idea of _cooking dinner for Aziraphale_ fills him with inordinate joy. He's probably going soft; he doesn't hate it at all.)

The angel/demon statue is currently also in the kitchen-turned-greenhouse, as there was no room in the sitting room, and it had seemed a little too on point to put it in the bedroom. Crowley has long had a fantasy (unattainable on an academic’s salary, of course, unless he happens to accidentally discover something extremely lucrative, which is about as likely as Armageddon in his specific field of study) of having a house with a conservatory, with glass walls covered in vining greenery and an indoor lemon tree and weird sculptures scattered amongst the begonias and ferns. This small room with philodendrons trailing down the side of the refrigerator and one arguably pornographic statue next to the china cabinet is ... not that, but it makes Crowley smile nonetheless, and Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind so long as the refrigerator door isn’t blocked and there is room for the wine rack and the teapot. 

Neither of them has really done much for the holidays for many years, because they haven't had anyone to celebrate with. Aziraphale has memories of going as a small child to his grandmother's rambling country estate in the Scottish Highlands, which was decorated with dark, fragrant garlands of fir and real candles and blanketed with deep, pristine, sparkling snowdrifts, but his grandmother's increasing isolation and the untimely, accidental death of his parents put an end to all that. He remembers later Christmases with his aunt and uncle and cousins as cold, formal affairs, heavy on appearances and light on actual sentiment. Crowley's childhood memories are mostly of Lucifer and his other relatives going off to some ubiquitous, ostentatious tropical island resort or other, and of being left behind with the staff in a cold and empty house, which was lonely for the first few years and then a relief when he got older and realized that he'd rather do almost anything else than spend time with his uncle and cousins. 

Crowley’s Christmases as an adult have consisted primarily of sitting on the couch alone in his pajamas and fluffy robe watching the Golden Girls marathon and eating Chinese takeaway. Aziraphale’s involve going to an evening church service on Christmas Eve and staying up too late afterwards absorbed in a new (old) book, then solitary mornings with rich fruited Christmas cake and a pot of strong English Breakfast tea. Which were both pleasant enough diversions, of course, especially when one has nothing better in one's adult life to compare them to. 

This year, though, is different. There's still the Christmas cake and the tea, and the pajamas (although to be fair that’s because they’re too old - and the flat a little too chilly - to be sitting around naked at the breakfast table), but it's so much better, too: soft touches, joyful laughter, sweet kisses, and each other. Most of all, each other.

There's a small Christmas tree decorated with white lights and red wooden apples. It's a live tree, because Crowley can't bring himself to buy one that's cut and dead; he'll put it out on the tiny postage-stamp back porch when the season is over, and by next December, it'll be taller and they'll decorate it again. He comes home the next day with an angel for the top, and it turns out that Aziraphale has had a similar-but-different idea and acquired a star. It requires some creative manipulation of branches and the temporary appropriation of some equipment from Crowley's lab to rig up something that will support two tree toppers on a too-small tree, but they manage to set both the angel and the star at the top, side by side. Aziraphale has also somehow found a set of Christmas baubles in a truly staggering array of a dozen different, clashing tartans, not only the expected Royal Stewart and Black Watch but various more obscure ones, including something called "Heaven's Dress" that matches his favorite bow tie perfectly. Crowley retaliates by coiling a small red-and-black rubber snake around one of the lower branches of the tree. He thinks the joke might be on him, though, because each morning he wakes up to see that the snake, like a slithery Elf on the Shelf, has made its way to some new location on the tree: among other things, he finds it variably embracing a wooden apple, the Heaven's Dress tartan ball, and, on Christmas morning, the angel and the star at the top of the tree. 

Aziraphale comes home one evening with a sprig of mistletoe, which is a Christmas tradition that Crowley has always found ridiculous, right up until the moment when Aziraphale steps up into his space, holds the silly thing above their heads, and kisses him. It's an open-mouthed, deep kiss, far more thorough than the tradition requires, and Aziraphale drops the mistletoe sometime in the middle of it in favor of winding both arms around Crowley. After that, it's absolutely Crowley's favorite holiday tradition. It starts the season hanging in the frame of their bedroom door, which they somehow seem to find themselves always trying to go through at the same time, but eventually makes its way to other parts of the flat. Crowley hides it on the inside of the door of the cluttered cabinet in the kitchen where Aziraphale keeps his multitude of tea tins, and when Aziraphale opens the cabinet in the morning and sticks his head inside to make the very important decision of whether it's an Earl Grey or a Darjeeling morning, Crowley swoops in to claim his prize. (He chooses Darjeeling, for the record, although it's some time before it actually gets made.) Aziraphale eventually gets him back, of course: Crowley, making his rounds with his plant mister, ducks underneath one of the huge, spreading leaves of his monstera plant to get a better look at what appears to be an odd, dangling, discolored growth (how dare it not be perfect?) on the underside, and is confronted by Aziraphale's face on the other side, sporting a cheeky and exceedingly kissable grin. 

On Christmas Eve, Aziraphale attends, as he does every year, the candlelit evening service at Christ Church Cathedral. Crowley waits for him outside afterwards and marvels that Aziraphale knows him so well that he has never once insisted that he come to church with him. 

Crowley is not really an atheist, although he tends to tell most people that he is; it's easier than trying to explain his complicated feelings about faith and religion and the ineffable things that rational thought can't explain, like why he'd spent more than sixteen years failing to get over someone he'd known for less than twenty-four hours. Which is to say, he obviously understands about following your heart instead of your head; he understands about leaps of faith. He's kind of ambivalent, though, about God and Heaven and Hell, even as metaphors; if She exists, he thinks that She probably doesn’t care whether people pray to her, or exalt her name, or whatever. 

Crowley does, despite what some people might think, have morals; although he's quite fond of petty mischief and snarky comments, he does, at heart, try to be a decent human being. Aziraphale says that he is, deep down, a good person; although he’ll never admit it, he knows that Aziraphale is right. Aziraphale has always (even when he’d only known him for all of eight hours, in Paris so long ago) been uncannily able to see straight into the most hidden parts of Crowley’s heart in a way that nobody else he’s met in his nearly forty years has ever been able to match.

But whatever his conflicted feelings about faith and God and morality, he’s never been a fan of organized religion, the sermons and the pervasive narrative of good and evil, heaven and hell, sin and forgiveness. Churches make him distinctly uncomfortable and twitchy as all hell. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is quietly religious in a personal and internal way; unlike some other religious people Crowley has encountered in the past, he does not engage in loud and demonstrative proselytizing or pass judgment or drop passive-aggressive hints that Crowley is headed straight to hell. Instead, he finds solace in the rituals and the music and the prayers. Crowley, despite his own discomfort with religion, loves this about him, loves the beatific calm and quiet joy that Aziraphale radiates when he comes back from church on Sunday mornings. It's the same sort of quiet satisfaction Crowley feels when he's tending to his plants or looking at the stars on cold, clear nights. In this and many other things, he thinks, Aziraphale is his mirrored opposite and perfect match, the other half of his heart. 

Aziraphale appears amidst a sea of Christmas Eve churchgoers, smiling peacefully; the air from inside the cathedral smells faintly of pine and candlewax. The smile grows wider when he sees Crowley waiting outside, gazing up at the stars that are beginning to emerge behind the silhouette of the ornate, towering cathedral spire. Behind Aziraphale, the choir has also emerged onto Tom Quad, and they begin an impromptu performance of "Silent Night" in both German and English, a tribute to the Christmas Truce of 1914. The starlit sky is unbounded overhead, yet somehow the voices are not lost in its vastness but instead echo, beautiful and a bit eerie, from the weathered stone walls around them. There are two soloists, the soprano high and clear like winter moonlight, singing in German, and the tenor rich and full like a bell in the darkness, singing in English. Their two voices are distinct and unique and yet perfectly harmonious. Instead of watching the singers, Crowley watches Aziraphale, who looks rapt, transported by the music, with his eyes half-closed. And when the choir invites everyone to join in to sing a reprise of the first verse, he looks back at Crowley, squeezing his hand and smiling the smile that's only for the two of them. 

They wander home slowly, ducking into deserted quads and hidden alcoves along the way to gaze at the quiet silhouettes of Oxford buildings, some nearly a thousand years old. The colleges are quiet and nearly deserted, much of the term-time population of the university having gone away for the holidays. Although there are still streetlamps and the occasional safety lights around the buildings, there are far fewer lit windows and car headlights about, and the sky is dark, cold, and very clear with the moon, just a sliver away from new, low on the horizon. As a result, there are far more stars visible, even with the naked eye, than one can ordinarily see in the middle of Oxford. Crowley shows Aziraphale the constellation Serpens and tells him about the Eagle Nebula, home of the Pillars of Creation, astonishingly gorgeous, massive pillars of dust and gas and radiation where stars are born in a process that is no less wondrous now that he’s learned (and even discovered) a small bit more about how it happens. Tonight they can also see Algol, the Demon Star, which changes in brightness depending on the interplay at any given time between its orbit and that of its binary partner.

They can't actually see Libra, not in the winter, but this doesn't stop Crowley from telling Aziraphale his new favorite joke: the Earth, based on his calculations, is a Libra, born on a fine October day 4.543 billion years ago. He loves that he can classify his astronomer colleagues based on how they react: they either snort with laughter (those with a sense of humor; not coincidentally, the ones he's most likely to get along with) or cringe (those who become livid every time some idiot confuses astronomy and astrology) or get all pedantic (there’s a 50 million year margin of error, which Crowley knows very well, thank you very much). Aziraphale, satisfyingly, laughs, something that people who are not astronomers or physicists rarely do, and then provides his own hilarious addition: apparently the Archbishop James Ussher’s calculations also put the Earth firmly in the house of Libra, only approximately six thousand years ago instead of four and a half billion. Crowley cannot wait to troll his more humorless colleagues at the next astrophysics conference with this piece of creationist trivia.

(Aziraphale, incidentally, is also a Libra. Crowley finds this extremely satisfying, because _Aziraphale_ and _the world_ for him are one and the same.)

They spot the North Star, Polaris, easily, high and bright in the sky, and follow it home, where they kiss on their starlit doorstep, and inside the darkened hallway, and under the mistletoe over the bedroom door. Polaris is extraneous though, Crowley knows, because he has Aziraphale and Aziraphale will always be the unerring beacon leading him home.

Christmas morning is lazy and quiet, and spent largely in bed. They only venture so far as the kitchen for the essentials (according to Aziraphale, anyway) of strong black tea and rich, marzipan-and-fruit-laden Christmas stollen for breakfast.

Crowley checks his email, because he’s dependent upon his electronic devices like he's dependent on his limbs, and it would be cruel on Christmas of all days to cut himself off. He’s got a message from Anathema sorting out the logistics of her start in the lab in the new year, several pieces of holiday-themed spam, and a message from Dagon Ichthys, which he opens with some trepidation. (He briefly considers leaving it unread, but succumbs quickly, because not knowing, in his mind, is always worse than knowing.)

> _Dear Crowley,_
> 
> _Happy holidays._
> 
> _Thought you might like to know that we’re revoking Raven Sable’s award. Multiple ethics violations, falsifying data, improper animal protocols etc. etc. We will not be working with him in the future and have alerted the authorities, university leadership, and all relevant journals._
> 
> _It was lovely to meet your partner, by the way. You two seem perfect for each other. Perhaps we could all get together for that coffee sometime in the new year?_
> 
> _Cheers, Dagon_
> 
> _PS – Bee is on your side, you know. She's more sympathetic than you might think._

"Angel," he says thoughtfully, "What would you say to having coffee with Dagon sometime?"

"I think that sounds like a lovely idea," replies Aziraphale, then adds, "I'm proud of you."

Eventually, sometime in the early afternoon, Crowley detaches himself from the warm tangle of blankets and Aziraphale and takes a quick trip to his old flat, which is full of neatly packed boxes and bubble-wrapped furniture and looks even more stark and cold as a result. He is there to fetch the very last of his plants and a few other small items, and he feels a great satisfaction and joy as he locks the door for almost the last time and heads out into the crisp, thin winter sunlight and drives back home. He staggers up the stairs carrying two large potted plants, puts one down on the coffee table, and attempts to set the other on a small end table, which is currently being occupied by a short stack of leatherbound books. It's not the ideal place for an angel wing begonia, or any plant really, but there's a severe shortage of available horizontal space in the flat at the moment. 

Aziraphale, who had been puttering about in the bedroom, appears with preternatural speed, a look of abject horror on his face. 

"No!" he practically shrieks. "Not on the Wildes!"

Crowley startles, clutching the plant to his chest with both arms. He could swear the leaves are trembling. He wishes he could inspire this kind of obedience from his plants on a regular basis. Hell hath no fury like an angel with a stack of first-edition Oscar Wildes to protect, apparently. 

He sets the plant down gently on the floor, well away from any books, and holds up both his hands in apology.

"Sorry! Sorry, angel. Won't happen again."

"No, no," says Aziraphale, chastened. "They shouldn't be there anyway. It's my fault. I got carried away the other night. Was rereading "Dorian Gray" and then I thought I should take a look through the others too, and before I knew it I'd fallen asleep in the armchair again. And you know how I get… "

Crowley has indeed often found Aziraphale peacefully asleep in that armchair with his mouth slightly open, a book (carefully closed and bookmarked, because even a sleepy Aziraphale would never be so monstrous as to crack the spine of a book) resting on the arm of the chair. He always feels slightly bad waking him from what looks like a pleasant nap, but usually does so anyway, in order to drag his warm, sleepy, wonderful angel off to bed. 

Now Aziraphale picks up the pile of books and carries them away to the tall bookshelf in the corner. The book on the top of the stack is "An Ideal Husband," and suddenly Crowley's head is full of all kinds of thoughts. He chides himself inwardly for moving way, way, _way_ too fast: after all, they have literally _just_ moved in together. 

Aziraphale turns toward him just as he picks up the book to reshelve it. There's a little, secret smile, almost a smirk, on his face, and suddenly Crowley is very, very sure of something. They won't ask each other just yet (because it really is too fast this time), but he knows that they are thinking the exact same thing. For now, it’s a secret shared between the two of them, unspoken but perfectly understood.

As it turns out, sometimes it takes one day to fall in love, and sometimes it takes nearly seventeen years to make it all work out, and sometimes it takes a little more than two months to realize that you've found your real family and your real home. And sometimes you realize all at once that you've both been moving in synch this whole time, exactly as fast as one another. 

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know how this became 10K of holiday fluff, but I'm not complaining! 
> 
> The [magical math chalk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhNUjg9X4g8) is a real thing, by the way.


End file.
